


Of Coins and the Quarter in the Sky

by superagentwolf



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mad Sweeney Needs a Hug, Shadow Moon is Tired, Some Humor, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-11-13 06:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: Everyone's favorite leprechaun with a bad attitude and his favorite, dark-eyed companion. Life is strange; these two are stranger.





	1. Fairy Cake

[Generator](http://fanficy-prompts.tumblr.com/) used for this amusingly nonsense AU.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s sitting at the park, contemplating his shitty life like some drama movie heroine. It’s how things go, he thinks with grim amusement. When he was married, Laura hadn’t been happy. When he’d failed at the robbery, she’d still been unhappy. When he got out, it was to the news that his wife was having an affair and was dead, along with the man she’d been fucking- his best friend.

That’s the way his life goes.

He leans back in the uncomfortable park bench, trying to figure out where the fuck he’s supposed to go next, when he sees him.

Being in prison makes you sharp. It makes you aware of your surroundings. You have less of a chance of getting stabbed in the back- or anywhere else, for that matter- if you’re looking for it.

Right now, his eyes are telling him that a strange man with a bag is swaggering by. He’s an odd guy- doesn’t really look like he belongs in the middle of nowhere-town in a park. He’s tall, with an odd red mohawk and beat-up leather jacket. He looks like the type who would be trouble in a bar. Shadow glances at the bag- a piece of shit one, probably scavenged or something- and files it away in his mind.

He stays there on the bench for another three minutes before the dark sky gets darker. He can hear people exclaiming, laughing. Tries not to feel resentful at couples trying and failing to share space as they run towards cover, multicolored umbrellas popping open like spring flowers.

He looks down the path, contemplating moving, and sees the dirty bag under an oak tree.

“Shit,” he mutters.

He grabs the bag- it’s too light to be anything dangerous, so he looks around, trying to find its owner. He sees the redhead sprinting own the path, saying something strange, a hand uselessly raised over his head.

“Wait!” Shadow yells, starting to walk faster.

The man either doesn’t hear him or ignores him. Shadow starts to jog, glancing around the empty street as they start to cross.

“I said wait! _Wait!_ Red!”

To this day, he isn’t sure why he said it. All he knows is that the man had turned then, something like guarded anger and defensiveness rising to his face.

And what a face.

Honey eyes verging on green in the cloudy afternoon. They have a half-crazed look to them, something he suspects is perpetual. His skin is fair, the faintest echo of freckles sprinkled across his cheekbones. He has smile lines, which is funny, because it seems like the man is less prone to joy and more prone to madness.

“What?”

One word, tinged with some foreign accent.

“Your bag.”

The man looks down, alarmed, and snatches it away. In that second- Shadow will never know what it was, some God or chance- the handle on the bag breaks and rips a hole in the side.

Acorns cascade from the torn bag.

“…uh…”

“Ah, yeh _shite_ \- well, yeh gonna help me, or stand there gawpin’?”

Irish. Shadow blinks, mouth working around an answer he isn’t sure of. He bends down, gathering acorns, and can’t help the laughter burbling out.

“You- _acorns_ -?”

“ _Yes_ , acorns. Fuck. Perfect ones, too,” the man gripes, rough hands grabbing them from the sidewalk.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Mad Sweeney.”

“…you’re Mad?”

“Ey- yeh barely know me, yeh muppet,” the man grins, all teeth and wild eyes.

Shadow shakes his head, not sure why the hell he’s talking to this crazy man. Or why he cares.

“Why acorns?”

Mad Sweeney straightens, scrutinizing Shadow as if he’s chewing on a piece of bone. Hell, he might be.

“…they’re good fer fairies.”

“Fairies?”

Sweeney sniffs, disgruntled, turning to walk away. In the moment before he’s facing the other direction, Shadow catches a glimpse of hurt. Tired. He immediately feels like an ass.

Who the hell is he to laugh at what other people believe in? He believed Laura loved him.

“Sorry. It’s just…I didn’t know there was a religion or something,” Shadow tries.

“There’s not, yeh doorknob,” Sweeney grumbles, but he doesn’t push Shadow away or tell him to fuck off.

Yet.

“Then why-?”

“Old country,” Sweeney says. “Yeh bring a bit of it with yeh when you come to America, but it dies out a little more with each piss-worth generation.”

“So you’re trying to keep fairies alive?”

Sweeney turns, his smile a little more fond than furious, and Shadow feels his heart beat painfully.

“That’s it. I’m tryin’ ta keep fairies alive.”

Shadow grins to himself, still not sure why he’s following Sweeney, and then the Irish man answers the question for him.

“I owe yeh one, I guess. Drink?”

His jaw is set, tilted a little, posture broad. Sweeney looks like he’s always ready for a fight. He’s the kind of guy you’d want on your side in prison, Shadow thinks, if only to keep an eye on him so he doesn’t bite you in the ass.

Except with that face, Shadow expects he’d be easily forgiven.

“Yeah. That’d be nice.”

Sweeney snorts, shaking his head, and continues to walk down the street. Shadow thinks he hears the man say something up towards the sky, but he can’t be sure. He can’t be sure and it doesn’t really matter. Not yet.

“Why’d it have ta be a pretty one?”


	2. WWYD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a taste of freedom? Shadow doesn't want to go back to prison. He learns that some pleasures, however, are not guilty- and maybe luck has something to do with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous tattoo!au because fuck yes I want to see our leprechaun covered in ink, who wouldn't want that?

He doesn’t have any tattoos.

Most people, he knows, will either say, ‘go to someone with good tattoos’ or ‘never go to someone with tattoos’. He figures he has a fifty-fifty chance of getting a client when they drop by to check out the shop. It’s better than his chances were when he landed himself in prison.

He learned a lot. Read so many books he knows now what Fibonacci numbers are and what themes in the Odyssey are present in modern film and literature. He knows Persephone’s original name and iambic pentameter and the constellations in the sky.

He also learned how to tattoo. Not the way they tried to with broken items and blood- he’d _really_ learned, from a guy with a strange name and stranger accent. He’d learned and practiced when he got out, the year he spent mourning Laura, and then he’d applied to work at a shop.

The bells jingle on the door and he looks around, hearing laughter coming from the back. He closes his sketchbook and makes his way to the front.

The man at the counter is tall. Tall and redheaded, a beaten leather jacket creaking quietly as he turns the pages of the art book. Even from the side he looks dangerous.

“Can I help you?”

The man turns, eyes sharp, a hand shoved into his jeans.

“Maybe. Yer work in ‘ere?”

Shadow blinks at the accent. He’s a little surprised. He would’ve pegged the man as a junkie, or maybe low-level gangbanger. It’s a good town for tourists, though, he thinks- far enough away from New York but close enough for day travel. He wonders if the man is a tourist.

“Yeah. Shadow Moon,” he says, half by way of introduction.

“ _Shadow Moon?_ ”

“Yes, it’s my name,” Shadow replies, anticipating the familiar question.

The Irishman laughs, throwing his head back, something fierce in the sound. Like it’s more of a roar than a laugh.

“Imagine that. A tattooist named _Shadow Moon._ This is rich.”

“Glad I’m good for a laugh.”

“Oh, I’m sure yer good fer more’n that,” the man grins.

It could be flirting, but it could also be a threat. Shadow feels like it’s both.

“So. What are you looking at getting?”

The man flips through the book, a crude ring on his finger gleaming darkly.

“Protection,” the man says vaguely. “A little bit o’ the mother land.”

“All right. You have a picture, or-?”

The man pulls something from his pocket. It looks like a page torn from a book. The paper is yellowing and the type looks uneven, as if it came from a time before computers. In the middle, there is a complicated knot- a Celtic knot, Shadow recognizes. It doesn’t quite look like any he’s seen before.

“What’s it mean?”

“More’n a word,” the man sniffs, slapping the book closed. “So?”

“…all right. Come on back.”

Shadow examines the page, pressing the button on his printer and making sure the tray is loaded.

“You have thoughts on size and placement?”

“It has to fit,” the man says, starting to pull at his jacket, and Shadow stops, realizing.

“You haven’t told me your name.”

“Mad Sweeney.”

“…you thought Shadow Moon was strange?”

“Aye, yeh bastard- at least _mine_ is original. What, were yer parents hippies?”

“Mother,” Shadow replies, amused.

Sweeney snorts, tearing his jacket off, and Shadow is even more amused at the man’s suspenders. _A hipster with a shit attitude,_ he thinks. The man starts pulling his shirt off and Shadow scratches his nose, trying not to pay too much attention.

He’d been used to communal showers in prison. It doesn’t make him any more comfortable, especially since Sweeney has…a large presence.

“There yeh are,” Sweeney declares, turning.

Shadow has to fight the gasp he feels rise in his chest. _It’s beautiful,_ he thinks, not noticing that he’s spoken. There are intricate curls and knots- like a maze- and a dragon, something that looks like clovers, a raven, a wolf…

“Aye, I’m a true peach,” Sweeney laughs sharply, rolling his shoulders nervously.

_Oh. I said that._

“Um- so, you just want me to fit it?”

“Yes.”

Shadow nods at Sweeney’s back, still entranced by the portrait he finds there. He moves closer, forgetting to be conscious of personal space, and traces an interesting spiral.

“Yeh havin’ fun back there?”

There’s laughter in the man’s voice. _Bastard._

“Found a place. Take a seat,” Shadow manages, turning quickly to the printer.

He’s trying to ignore his burning ears. Sweeney, the bastard, is chuckling. Shadow concentrates on setting up.

“So- you visiting? Traveling?”

“I’m _from_ here, yeh doorknob.”

“Sorry. It’s-,”

“-the accent,” Sweeney snorts.

“Please don’t do that while I’m working,” Shadow smirks, imagining the look on the man’s face.

“Oh, _aye_. Are yeh always this smug, or am I just lucky?”

“I dunno. Do you have a habit of being lucky?”

“’Course I do. I’m a fuckin’ leprechaun,” the man snickers.

Shadow shakes his head, biting back a smile, and the buzz of the needle descends. He knows the tattoo won’t take long- it’s relatively small. Still, he likes talking to Sweeney, so he takes his time with it.

“That so? What’s a leprechaun doing outside of New York?”

“I got bored.”

“Of New York?”

“Of bein’ lucky,” Sweeney growls, head twisting to the side a little as if he’s tempted to look back.

Shadow pauses only long enough to nudge the man’s cheek back in place, surprised that he can feel warmth through his gloves.

“Why? Seems like a good deal to me.”

“Oh, aye- it rains, I have a fuckin’ umbrella. Some guy at the bars throws a punch, no one cares much or no one’s lookin’.”

“That doesn’t sound like good luck.”

“It is if yeh like fightin’,” Sweeney says and Shadow can practically hear his smile.

He wipes away ink, careful, checking lines as he works. Sweeney’s fingers lazily toy with his ring, twisting it silently. Shadow concentrates on his work, leaning a little closer as he moves through a series of twists.

Sweeney smells like Southern Comfort- Shadow would know; he’d chased enough bottles of different shapes and sizes after the funeral. The smell of cigarettes is also there, something Shadow hates to admit he likes. Something about it is just good to him.

“And you? Yeh always worked in this hole?”

“No. Only a year now,” Shadow says mildly.

He usually tries to stay away from his past when talking to customers. Some won’t come back. Others are a little _too_ interested.

“Before?”

“…nothing this good,” Shadow tries, hoping the line of questioning will die.

“Yer a prison man, Shadow Moon. No point in bein’ so shy about it.”

“…how do you know?” he stops working, one hand tightening on his knee.

“Yeh got the look. Yeh like a good fight, even if yeh won’t admit it. Got that _anticipation_ about yeh.”

Shadow sighs through his nose. _Things were going so well,_ he thinks, and then he prepares himself for the usual litany of crazed idealism. The ‘prison is great’ kind, the ones who go on about ‘being a black in prison’ and ‘how hard it must have been’ and ‘fuck all ‘em suits on the outside’. The angry kind.

“Have yeh had a milkshake yet?”

“What?”

“A milkshake, sonny. Yeh had one?”

“I…no, I…why-?”

“Yeh can’t call yerself a free man unless yeh’ve sucked down a milkshake, lad.”

Sweeney is toeing the line at this point. Shadow shakes his head but he can’t shake his smile.

“That so?”

“Yes! _Jesus_ fuck, milkshakes are this nation’s _greatest_ creation. Right up there with fuckin’ apple pie and capitalism. And the ones with _alcohol,_ ” Sweeney laughs, a half-snarl.

“Alcohol?”

“Yer getting’ a milkshake if it kills me,” Sweeney decides. “That’s final.”

Shadow finishes the tattoo easily, watching Sweeney slip his shirt back on over the wrapped skin. The man cracks his leather jacket, pulling his arms through it.

“So. Milkshake,” Sweeney grins, all teeth.

Shadow is about to call one of the others from the back, tell them he’ll return soon, when the bells on the front door chime. Shadow casts Sweeney an apologetic look.

“Gimme a minute,” he says, moving quickly, but before he can get there, someone walks in.

Wednesday, with the familiar aroma of cheap car freshener and something else burning. The old man is the owner of the shop in name, even though he rarely deigns to appear. Shadow thinks he’s probably into some illegal shit, but it was hard enough to apply for work with his record. He wasn’t turning down anything when he chose to work for Wednesday’s shop.

“Ah, Shadow, m’boy. Going somewhere?”

“Lunch,” Shadow supplies, trying to be polite.

He has nothing against Wednesday. He just doesn’t particularly enjoy extending their interactions past what’s necessary.

“Is that _Mad Sweeney_?” Wednesday smiles, broad, and Shadow is surprised.

He looks back at Sweeney, questioning, but he sees the iron curtain dropping over the man’s face and the way his shoulders turn in a little. It makes him angry, the way Sweeney’s cavalier attitude evaporates like so much water in the sun.

“Wednesday.”

“ _Mister_ Wednesday,” the man corrects, laughing. “How have you been? Still in those shitty lunchbox apartments?”

“They’re affordable,” Sweeney says shortly, barely hiding his contempt and sarcasm.

“Oh- you and I both know you could have so much more,” Wednesday chuckles. “Besides…you _could_ work for me. Have a whole apartment block to yourself. Live like a king.”

“Oh, I will ya,” Sweeney sneers. “That’ll be the fuckin’ day.”

Wednesday doesn’t watch Sweeney walk away. He stays where he is, facing the office. Shadow feels the change in environment acutely- gone is the charisma and flirtation. If he’s honest, he misses it. Sweeney pauses by him, still smelling like alcohol and nicotine, and Shadow can almost smell something sweet.

“You taste some o’ that freedom, yeh hear,” Sweeney says, smile crooked.

Shadow wants to stop him but all he can do is listen as the bells chime again.

And that’s just _his_ luck.

*

He can’t help thinking of Sweeney. It’s every goddamn day now, when he has a minute, probably because the page is still sitting on his desk. The Celtic knot curls on the leaf of paper, mocking him. He wonders about Sweeney- what he’s doing, if he works somewhere in town, how he knows Wednesday.

Or, more likely, how Wednesday knows him.

“We’re heading to lunch,” Julie smiles at him, waving as she leaves with her apprentice.

Shadow nods in acknowledgement. It’s been a quiet week and a dead day. Maybe it’s because the holidays are popular for travel and no one’s looking to get pierced or tattooed. Whatever the case, he’s cursing his bad luck for having more time to think about things. Useless things.

The bells chime.

“Welcome to-,”

His voice dies in his throat when he turns and sees the familiar face.

“Luck o’ the Irish,” Sweeney manages in a strangled voice, shaking his head.

“Hey. Hey- it’s good to see you,” Shadow grins, moving to the counter.

“Is- you here alone?”

“Yeah. Um- lunch.”

“Aye. Of course. Lunch. You would stay in for lunch.”

Sweeney looks distracted. Shadow clears his throat, trying to swallow past the embarrassment and excitement rising in his chest.

“So. Were you…looking to get something else done?”

“I can- you must have an appointment or somethin’-,”

“No! No, I don’t,” Shadow amends, nails digging into his palm. “I’m free.”

Sweeney nods, casting a glance around the shop, and Shadow pauses before speaking again.

“He won’t be by. Wednesday. He’s traveling.”

“-oh.”

“I know…I don’t know how you know him. I don’t think anyone much likes him, though. Or at least…I don’t know. He’s dangerous.”

Sweeney snorts, shaking his head, but he relaxes a little as he leads the way back to Shadow’s station.

“Aye. That’s a fuckin’ understatement.”

Shadow smiles, glad to be on what feels like better ground. He starts setting up his table.

“So what is it this time?”

“Nothin’ difficult,” Sweeney says, passing a piece of worn paper.

“Triskele?”

“That’s right,” Sweeney says, looking pleased.

Shadow’s just proud he knows it, for some stupid reason. Like he’s showing off or something.

“Where?”

Sweeney extends his left hand, palm up, and Shadow feels his gaze linger a bit too long on the pale wrist. He nods sharply, partially to stop his traitorous eyes.

“Did you always plan to get all of them? The symbols, the-,”

“No,” Sweeney huffs. “Not really. People nowadays know fuckall about the past, right. I know it won’t do me any good. They just feel _right_.”

Shadow isn’t sure he follows- not completely- but he nods, tracing the first spiral. It feels meditative. This close, he can smell something like oak on Sweeney’s hands. They’re rough hands. Working hands. Fighting hands, too. Shadow can tell by the scars on the knuckles and the uneven, blunt nails.

“So what do you do, Sweeney?”

“Live,” the man grins.

Shadow looks up, smirking, and catches honey-brown eyes scrutinizing him. It’s distracting, so he looks away.

“So you’re a professional live-er.”

“…I work odd jobs. Movin’ shit. Workin’ on apartments.”

“Handyman.”

“Yeh could say so,” Sweeney says, laughter in his voice, and Shadow tries to ignore the burning in his face.

It shouldn’t be embarrassing, but somehow it is. He gets the feeling Sweeney has a habit of making other people embarrassed. Angry, too. And other things.

The machine in his hand buzzes and he tries to stop following the specific train of thought before he’s a lost cause. It’s har- _difficult_.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re in New York. It’s not as hard to get a job with tattoos.”

“I’m a right lucky bastard,” Sweeney agrees, staring up at the ceiling.

His other hand is moving and Shadow, curious, pauses his work to look.

“You-,”

“It’s nothin’ much-,”

Shadow stops him, surprised at himself, with a finger. Sweeney cocks an eyebrow, a slow smile twisting his lips. Shadow extends his hand, questioning, and Sweeney pauses before handing the coin over.

He moves it over his fingers slowly, watching it walk, and vanishes it. Plucks it again from the other hand, moving through stages of the trick. It feels like slipping into an old jacket. Comfortable, familiar. It’s been almost a year. He’d stopped after the funeral, first in mourning and then in anger. He’d come back to it after acceptance.

Sweeney is grinning like a madman and Shadow feels immeasurably pleased. He offers the coin back, chuckling, but Sweeney bumps his side with a jean-clad thigh.

“Keep it. For luck,” the man adds, eyes bright with mischief.

They finish in comfortable silence, the final minute of work flying by. He’s cleaning up when the others return, laughing and boisterous. Sweeney rolls his shoulders, pulling cigarettes from his jacket, glancing at the new ink.

“All right,” Shadow starts, peeling his gloves off, trying to stay steady.

He’s built it up the entire time, hoping, and now he has to.

“Yeh work Monday?”

“…yeah,” Shadow manages, blinking.

“Right. I’ll be seein’ ya,” Sweeney winks, a metallic _clink_ echoing as he lights his cigarette.

Shadow watches him walk out the door and wonders what exactly is happening. He’s not sure, but he sure as hell likes it.

*

He’s getting off work at nine, still bemused by Sweeney’s exit, and when he walks out the door it jingles behind him.

“So, did ya?”

He almost jumps out of his skin. Almost, but his heart is racing and he doesn’t want to miss the chance to talk to Sweeney.

“Did I what?”

“Yeh taste freedom?”

“…I waited,” Shadow manages, feeling like his smile is half wrecked, and his thought is confirmed when Sweeney’s eyes darken.

“Damn yer dark eyes,” he growls.

He feels the slap first, sharp and metallic, and tries to tell himself he’s angry. He isn’t, though, and then he’s especially not angry when Sweeney shoves him against the brick wall of the building.

He should’ve known Sweeney was a fighter. Hell, he did, he just didn’t think it would go this far. Or maybe he just ignored it. Either way, he loses his train of thought when Sweeney kisses him, biting, hand bruising on his arm. He can taste the blood in it.

He laughs when they get a chance to breathe.

“Lucky coin,” he manages, heart stuttering when Sweeney’s teeth scrape against his neck.

“Smug bastard,” the man snarls, but he doesn’t stop.

The moon is already high in the sky, hanging like a silver dollar, and Shadow wants to pluck it down to give to Sweeney. Instead, he bites back.

He guesses it’s a good substitute when Sweeney groans.


	3. Infrequent Flyer Miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *BEEP BEEP* NSFW *BEEP BEEP*  
> He's never flown before. It's never too late to start racking miles up, though...  
> No Gods AU where Sweeney is the one who meets Shadow in the airport.

He’s sitting in an airport.

Missed flight, they told him. Cancellations due to bad weather. Can’t get you out ‘til tomorrow at six-forty, sir, so sorry about that. It’s the kind of karmic fuckery he’s come to expect in his life. He’s out of prison, Laura is dead, she was having an affair and her best friend made Shadow’s last few hours in prison a living hell.

She’d called. They had taken him to a phone, guard watchful, and he’d picked up the phone to an earful of the wronged woman talking about how she’d wanted Laura buried with Robbie’s dick in her mouth.

“Two fucken’ ay-em,” a nearby man growls, slamming a backpack to the ground.

A tall man. Redhead. He looks vaguely dirty- the sort of type who spends his nights in dives where the music is almost too loud and fights pop up unhindered. He’d be uninteresting to Shadow, but the man is agitated and airports are the worst places to be angry.

_Don’t fuck with them airport bitches._

Shadow shifts in his seat, ignoring the imaginary news articles floating in his mind- _woman dead, victims in car accident distracted, local action group speaks out about paying attention while driving…_

Not giving fucking blowjobs to the driver.

“Yeh can move the fucken arms up.”

Shadow looks up, confused, distracted. The redhead is positively slamming the arms on the chairs upwards, the noise echoing in the dead space. The man reclines easily, stretched out awkwardly over the fake leather.

“I’m fine,” Shadow manages, still not quite catching up to the assertion.

He’s too tired and too fucked over to care.

“It ain’t smart. You’re gonna not sleep, get on an airplane and not sleep, and then get home and walk around like a fucken’ zombie. Yeh don’t wanna spend your free days doin’ that.”

“…how do you know I’m just out?”

He can feel his fingers curl around his ticket. His overheated brain kicks into overdrive, remembering the exits he’d seen before and the security stations. If anything, he’ll take punches from the man and let the authorities figure out he’s legal after.

He just needs to get home.

“Are yeh? Heh. Could tell you’d been in. Didn’t realize you were _fresh_. What for?”

“Same as everyone else. Got caught.”

“Ain’t that the fucken’ truth,” the man laughs, kicking one dirty boot over another.

Shadow rubs his face. He’s exhausted. All he can do is think about Laura and Robbie and how she’d said _I can wait_.

He wonders how long it took.

“Yer free. The hell yeh look like a kicked dog?”

“I’m not a dog,” he says immediately, filter broken in the stress of the day.

 _I’m not your puppy anymore,_ he thinks bitterly.

“Course yer not. So?”

“…my wife died,” he says, not sure why because it’s not public information.

He’d always been protective of Laura. Loved her with everything he had. Even still does, disgustingly, in some recess of his heart. Still. It’s late, he’s tired and he has no one to talk to now. No Robbie. A friend and a wife, all in one go.

“Sorry.”

“She was fucking my best friend.”

“Fuck the cunt,” the man amends, emphatic, a solitary finger pointing at the sky. “Shit, dead wife. No respect. Couldn’t even give you the courtesy, eh?”

“Guess not.”

“Never saw the point. What’s a wife good for? Cook? Easy to do. Clean? They got maids for that.”

The man grins, half of his mirth clear even as his eyes are hidden by his leather jacket.

“Most guys I hear only really care about the other part of the deal,” Shadow points out.

“Aye- but yeh don’t need a woman ta fuck.”

Shadow blinks, shifting back in his seat. He’s honestly a little surprised. He shouldn’t be. Still…

“I guess so.”

*

It’s five in the morning and he just wants to be dead.

Really, he does. No worries. No cares. No airports.

He leaves his seat because he has no bag- all he owns is on his back or in his pocket- and there’s no one to steal it anyways. The bathroom is too bright when he enters, fluorescent lights burning his eyes. He shuts them off, not really caring whether he’s allowed. It only takes a second for his eyes to adjust.

He is just walking into a stall when the door opens again. For some reason, he feels like hiding.

 _You’re not in trouble,_ he tells himself. The lights stay off.

Someone runs water at the sink. He decides to go. There’s not point in waiting; besides, he doesn’t want to get locked in if it’s an employee. The door doesn’t open again so he hurries, wondering if the other person is embarrassed.

He’s a little less shameful since being in prison.

When he leaves the stall he blinks, taking in the redhead at the sink. The man is shaving his face messily, water pooling around the sink.

“People comin’ in soon,” the man notes, ignoring Shadow.

“Yeah,” he says, stepping up to a sink.

He can see his own stubble in the mirror. He usually has a scruffy face- he’d gotten used to it, especially when the available razors were pitiful single-blades. It’s been two days now and he looks rough.

“Here,” the man says, hand extended as he wipes his face with a rough paper towel.

“Oh- I-,”

“Yeh look like a convict. _Extra_ convict,” he snorts.

“Right.”

The man smirks, watching. Shadow’s skin feels itchy under the scrutiny.

“So what’s your name?” he asks, trying to divert the attention.

“Mad Sweeney.”

“You some sort of musician?”

Sweeney cackles.

“What about you?”

“Shadow Moon.”

“You some sort’a hippie?” Sweeney grins.

Shadow can’t help his small smile. He rinses off, sharp nod as he passes the razor back.

“Mom was.”

“Moms. I’m Irish.”

“Couldn’t tell.”

“He was a king. Or some shite. Can’t barely remember anymore.”

“It’s interesting,” Shadow admits.

Sweeney hums, but he seems to be half-listening. Shadow takes it as his cue, turning to leave, but then the man speaks.

“Yeh want me to stop ya?”

“…what?”

“I gave you my razor,” Sweeney grins.

He looks a little unhinged, but Shadow’s sure he does, too. He’s also confused.

“Sorry, I don’t know-,”

“Think of it as therapy,” Sweeney continues, hands shoved in his jeans as he saunters closer.

“Therapy?”

“A finger to yer dead wife. And the friend.”

“I don’t want to spite-,”

“Liar.”

“I _don’t_ -,”

“Lie some more, will ya? Maybe next time we’ll both believe it,” the man growls.

He shoves himself up in Shadow’s space, a little too close, and tilts his head. His eyes are brown, light and greenish in the fluorescents. It all feels surreal.

“Tell me no,” Sweeney says, quiet. “In no un-fucken’-certain terms.”

_And why can’t he?_

He reacts from instinct; unfortunate, violent instinct. He expects Sweeney to curse him out, leave. Instead, the man lets the punch roll off him, grinning past the spot of blood on his lip. He mouth hits Shadow with bruising force, nothing kind about it, and Shadow can taste whiskey and cigarettes. He has no idea what the fuck is happening.

He’s not an idiot. He knows how things work. He just…hasn’t.

Now he’s not sure why. _Don’t need a woman ta fuck._ A cocky grin and a razor.

He pushes and Sweeny pushes back, Shadow’s elbow hitting something metal. It makes a hollow sound, the clang disappearing in the echoes of their breathing. It’s filthy and it should be embarrassing, the panting and moaning, but he wasn’t kidding himself about losing inhibitions in prison. Some things just aren’t as important anymore.

This, though. The noises and the empty room and the public space- he can’t quite stop his reaction. He feels a little common for being so turned on by it, but really he can’t afford to care. The airport will be busy soon and they don’t need to get caught.

The idea goes straight down south.

“Who isn’t a fucken’ dog- probably wondering about those guards now, ain’t yeh,” Sweeney laughs.

“You talk too much,” Shadow manages, half-assed complaining in an attempt to keep up appearances.

Sweeney snorts and Shadow is so busy expecting a retort that he doesn’t realize his pants are open and then there’s a warm hand somewhere that hasn’t been touched by anyone else in years. He chokes on the sound he makes, wondering if there’s anything on the other side of the wall. He hopes not. Kind of.

“I know it’s sensitive stuff,” Sweeney smirks, “but you’ll get over it.”

Shadow’s about to call him out on the dumb joke when Sweeney disappears, dropping down half his body, and then he’s left practically biting his hand to keep quiet. He swears Sweeney is fucking _laughing_ around his dick.

He can feel himself unraveling. All the stress. Hate. Anger. Sorrow. Contradictions tied up in knots fall away and nothing matters but the present moment and Sweeney’s obscenely warm, wet mouth. There are spots behind his eyes and he can barely concentrate on keeping himself upright. He has no fucking idea what he’s doing but things are feeling much less complicated.

Sweeney’s nails scrape against his hips, dipping lower. They push him over the edge, the sharpness driving him past coherent thought. He feels only a little sorry and then Sweeney smirks at him, leaning in, mouth sticky. He does it purposefully, Shadow thinks, but he doesn’t care. He’s completely languid, tasting himself and Sweeney and blood.

Sweeney wiggles his eyebrows, turning to the sink. Shadow almost misses the intercom announcing his flight. He blinks, hurriedly cleaning up, knowing he won’t be able to get rid of the smell. Not completely.

“That’s me,” he says by way of explanation, glancing sideways.

Sweeney has a grin that’s distinctly shit-eating. Or, well.

“Don’t wanna miss it,” the man winks.

He leaves the bathroom. As soon as he’s out, his feet stop. He sways in place, not sure why, and part of him wants to turn back. He’s not stupid, though, and he knows he needs to get home.

He’s in his seat when he sees a redheaded man board the plane, grinning at the flight attendant. Shadow feels his breath catch.

_Karmic fuckery._

Sweeney winks at him, suave and dangerous, passing by and brushing his shoulder with a hand. The same hands- _stop_.

He absolutely does not fight the desire to look back every five minutes of the flight. He also doesn’t drop things as an excuse to try and look back at Sweeney.

Every time, the bastard is grinning like a smug fucking leprechaun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hilariously easy to write. Anyways, I'm having fun. Sweeney and bathroom sex are like, 85% related in my book.


	4. Fleet Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *BEEP BEEP* NSFW *BEEP BEEP*  
> An AU you didn't know you needed: a barbershop, a smirking Irishman, and a guy who's just looking for a goddamn job.

“Oh my god, did you hear? Sweeny got in a fight again.”

“You’re joking.”

This, sarcastically, from a nearby woman.

Shadow is waiting for his haircut, glancing around the packed place. One of those hip salons in New York with a retro interior and tattooed workers. They even do old-school shaves with straight razors.

“Yeah. He totally got drunk in a bar down the street and beat some guy up. Got beat up himself, too.”

“He needs to get his shit together.”

“He’s been fucked up ever since Mr. Wednesday. That asshole screwed him over when he needed help.”

“Don’t make excuses for him,” the second woman snorts, blow-drying woman’s hair. “He just likes fighting. Animal.”

It’s none of his business, but the girls talk and he hears them. He wonders who the Sweeney person is.

When the women hush and the back door opens, he assumes it’s the man.

He’s tall, with wild red hair. Shadow can see the edges of bruises under his leather jacket. A purplish shadow curling under his jaw. He looks like the kind of person who’s been beaten so often they just started hitting back. He knows the type.

“Hey, Sweeney. We’re going to lunch. Want anything?”

The first woman. Younger. She looks hopeful. The other woman rolls her eyes, sending her client off with a wave.

“Yeh go on,” the man jerks his chin, “I’ll be here.”

Shadow wonders if they’ve forgotten about him.

“Just one left,” the older woman says, short.

Sweeney sighs, rubbing his face.

“Aye. Go on.”

The man walks out from the main area, flipping the shades down and turning off the illuminated _Open_ sign.

“Early to close?” Shadow asks conversationally.

“Sunday,” the man grunts, waving him over. “What are yeh needin’?”

“Just a cut.”

“Live a little, eh? I got time.”

He waves towards the basins, eyebrows raised, and Shadow pauses.

“All right.”

Not that he has much hair to wash. Still, there’s no harm.

And Sweeney looks tired. The kind of tired Shadow used to see in guys who had years to serve on stupid sentences. Men with lives to live who were beat because they could be. Who became ‘troublemakers’ because they eventually fought back. The least he can do is stay a little longer.

“Yeh haven’t been here before.”

“New in town.”

The water is warm. Perfectly, actually. Sweeney’s hands are quick and Shadow tries not to sigh too loud. It feels like a massage.

“New job?”

“Not really. Just had to get away.”

“Ah. Well, here’s to gettin’ away,” Sweeney says.

He hasn’t had anyone touch his head since Laura. It feels nice. Better than nice, actually, and he tries to think of other things. Still, Sweeney’s hands are coaxing him somewhere relaxing. Very, very relaxing…

“So what’s yer name?”

“Shadow Moon,” he murmurs, a little embarrassed at the way his voice sounds.

“Shadow Moon,” Sweeney repeats. “That’s a seventies momma name.”

“She was. Kind of,” Shadow clears his throat, trying to sound firm.

He can _hear_ the smile in the smug bastard’s voice.

“Mmm. Well, I’m Mad Sweeney.”

“You’re Mad,” Shadow points out, knowing it’s a bad joke.

Sweeney’s Irish; he can tell by the accent. The very interesting accent.

“Aye, I’m Mad,” Sweeney chuckles. “Too hot?”

“No, it’s perfect,” Shadow mumbles.

He can _hear_ the smirk.

It’s over too soon, the water shut off as Sweeney brings a hot towel. Shadow manages to pry himself up, reluctantly leaving the chair. He’s directed with a hand- a magic, wonderful hand- towards the middle chair on the left wall. Sweeney moves a rolling table over with a flourish- Shadow wonders if it’s unintentional; if maybe Sweeney is so steeped in his craft that it happens no matter what. He can appreciate artistry. Sweeney has it.

“So what do yeh do? Work nearby?”

“Nah- I’m trying to find work. Security jobs.”

“’Course,” Sweeney grins and it’s exactly how Shadow imagined it. “Big guy like you.”

When he turns the chair his fingers just brush Shadow’s shoulder. He’s almost sure it’s unintentional, but the constant smirk throws him off.

“Yeah. I, um- haven’t had any luck yet.”

“Luck’s what yeh need? Easy,” Sweeney murmurs, wrist turning as he flips clippers in hand.

Shadow is very tempted to watch everything Sweeney does. He’s a showman- a true magician, really, because the point of magic is to transfix the audience so much they don’t realize you’re tricking them. Shadow’s impressed. It’s not often he runs into someone like Sweeney and he sure as hell hadn’t expected to in a barber shop.

“You know…there are other things I’m good at. Just harder to find a job for them,” Shadow says.

“And what are those?”

He pulls a coin from his pocket, walking it over his fingers. Sweeney pauses, clippers buzzing as he watches. Shadow moves easily through the steps- vanishing, plucking the coin from nowhere, switching hands. Sweeney’s grin broadens.

“Would yeh look at that. A man after my own heart. That’s talent,” Sweeney chuckles, continuing his work.

It makes Shadow’s heart skip disgustingly. He’s almost appalled at how invested he is in impressing Sweeney. But…

“You used to bartend?”

Sweeney pauses, the clippers turning off as he reaches for a brush.

“…lucky guess?”

“The way you move. I’ve seen flourishes before. Like coin tricks, but more weight. Showy.”

“You callin’ me a showboat?”

“They’re dazzling,” Shadow amends, watching Sweeney’s smirk.

_Seriously? They’re dazzling? What are you, eighty?_

“Sweet o’ya,” Sweeney says lowly. “I was. Loved it.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Didn’t wanna run the alcohol under the bar,” Sweeney says conversationally.

It’s the point where someone else would say _what_ or ignore the meaning. Shadow is not someone else.

“Saw some guys in prison who went in for that. Not worth it.”

“I will ya,” Sweeny snorts. “Boss was a big man, though. Cut me outta every place he fucken’ could.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeh do what yeh can,” he replies, sighing.

He cleans Shadow off quickly and then he pauses by his station, tapping his fingers on the countertop.

“I’d say yer in fair need of a shave. If yeh want one.”

“I-,”

“Free o’charge. For the good company,” Sweeney winks.

“Rain check? Gotta find a hotel room.”

“Ah. Well, ye’ll be needin’ a spot o’ luck for that,” Sweeney snorts.

He reaches into a drawer, quick, and flips a coin at Shadow. It’s gold and heavy but not too difficult to palm.

“Thanks,” Shadow says, tossing it into the air.

“Rain check,” Sweeney reminds him as he leaves, waving him down the street.

 _Definitely_ , Shadow thinks.

*

It’s two weeks later when Shadow is walking down an empty street, the silver dollar in the sky shining brightly. He’s been to who knows how many places for interviews. He’s not broke, but he hates burning through money at a shitty motel.

He doesn’t want to get a taxi so he walks, miles away from his room, tired. He’s tuning out the world when he sees a redheaded man stumbling away from an alley.

He knows better than to get involved. He sees this shit all the time; had seen it in prison. A fight where someone’s being beat by a group is usually a fight you don’t want any part of. Settling things is as far as it usually goes and getting involved only runs the risk of bringing a ‘settling’ down on your head. He knows all these things, but when he sees Sweeney stumble on the curb and get knocked down, he forgets.

“Hey!”

The three guys aren’t as big as him. It’s too easy for him to throw into the fight, fists flying, bruises already waiting to blossom. He gets hit and hits, adrenaline pumping as he lands a punch. Sweeney is right there, half-dazed but still swinging.

A minute later the attackers are dazed and incapacitated. Shadow glances down the street, suddenly anxious, and then Sweeney’s familiar hand laces through his.

“Come on. _Come on,_ yeh big lump.”

They wind through a few alleys, taking turns that make Shadow dizzy. Eventually they’re spit out onto a street, right to the steps of some middle-end apartments. Not shitty but not gilded. Sweeney leads the way up the stairs, second floor, down the hall. He opens the door to his apartment, flipping a light switch, and Shadow takes a moment.

It's funny. Not as dirty as he’d imagined. There are magazines- tattoos and haircuts, he notices- strewn about the living room. The kind of television that belongs to a college kid. The dishes by the sink are mismatched and cheap.

“To the left,” Sweeney directs, sniffing, reaching into a closet.

“What?”

“Bathroom. Go. To the left.”

Shadow cautiously moves, opening the door, and then Sweeney is suddenly crowding him in. He has towels in his hand- deep maroon, which Shadow suspects is no coincidence.

“You don’t have to-,” he starts, until Sweeney leans over him to reach into the bathtub.

_Close. Very close._

“Shut it. Yeh don’t leave a man on the street after a fight,” Sweeney says seriously.

“I just wanted to help.”

“Oh, _aye_ ,” Sweeney laughs. “Yeh sure did. Got a mean right hook.”

Shadow smiles a little and Sweeney sighs, tossing him a damp towel.

“What was that about?”

“Bar days,” Sweeney grimaces, rinsing his cut lip. “Dumb _shite_. Anyway.”

Sweeney throws him off guard, suddenly grabbing his wrist and scrutinizing his hand. He turns it carefully and Shadow hopes he can’t feel his pulse.

“I’ve had worse.”

“Aye, I’m sure yeh have. Come on.”

Shadow follows him back out, curious, and Sweeney tosses some magazines off the small couch. He dumps a few things on the beat-up coffee table, lowering himself onto it with a grimace.

“Well? Sit down.”

Shadow raises an eyebrow, taking the couch.

“Now?”

Sweeney snorts.

“Have yeh _seen_ yer face? What, were yeh _waitin’_ for me?”

Shadow takes a second too long to answer.

“…no.”

“Yer sweet,” Sweeney grins.

It’s interesting. Old-fashioned shaving cream, thick and cold against his skin as Sweeney applies it. He thinks he should tilt his head back so he does, waiting. He can feel the blade after a second, just on the side of his cheek, and Sweeney’s warm hands.

“Thanks,” he says carefully, trying not to dislodge the cream.

“Fer what? I’m not the one who jumped into a fucken’ fight.”

“I’m glad I did,” Shadow says firmly.

It’s quiet and he wonders if he said the right thing. He wonders and then there’s a sure weight settling against his legs, _right_ over a sensitive spot. His eyes fly open.

“What-,”

“Keep yer head back,” Sweeney snickers, lips curled.

Shadow swallows, blinking at the ceiling, trying to concentrate. Sweeney’s hand moves steadily, the blade sweeping along his neck. Just this side of dangerous.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Shadow tries.

“No talkin’ while I have a blade in hand,” Sweeney murmurs, voice low and suspiciously close to Shadow’s ear.

He is failing monumentally at distracting himself. He is hyperaware of Sweeney; his weight, the way his thighs press against Shadow’s legs, the smell of cigarettes on his clothes.

There’s no way Sweeney doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s doing a very good job, too- so Shadow knows he has to ask. He knows what he wants at the moment. He just isn’t sure what Sweeney wants.

The blade leaves his skin, replaced by a warm cloth, pressing just against his pulse.

“What do _you_ want?” Shadow asks, watching and waiting.

Sweeney smiles, languid, like a cat. He drapes easily over the couch, leaning a little closer, and Shadow is holding his breath.

“ _I_ …want you to fuck me. And not just with yer damned dark eyes,” he grins, all teeth.

“Can do,” Shadow growls, unable to keep still, and he pulls Sweeney by his ridiculous hair.

He thinks this will be interesting. Sweeney isn’t gentle. He bites and Shadow wants to not like it- he wants to not like the fight. It’s no use, though, because he _does_.

“Was this your plan?” Shadow wonders, amused. “Get me here?”

Sweeney tugs at his shirt, nails scraping Shadow’s chest as he laughs half-manically.

“ _I_ was ready in the shop, boy-o. _You_ were playin’ hard to get.”

Shadow can’t help his laugh. Everything about this is fucking absurd. He can’t believe this is his life. He wants to be normal, but if he’s honest, he _really_ likes not being so. He’s still half-beaten and covered in blood, Sweeney upended the shaving cream at some point, and the thinks there are magazines getting stuck to his arms.

He has no idea when Sweeney got a condom but the wrapper is on top of his pants, which are somehow on the floor.

“I didn’t mean _this_ kind of luck,” Shadow laughs, breathless, trying to focus and get Sweeney’s jeans off.

“ _I_ did,” Sweeney smirks, pushing at Shadow, and then-

_the fucking couch falls backwards._

It should ruin the mood but all it does is make Sweeney dissolve into laughter, panting, pale skin suspended above Shadow’s chest. Shadow, triumphant, throws Sweeney’s jeans- he thinks they knock a glass over; he isn’t sure.

_I want you to fuck me._

He realizes he’s not doing a very good job, deciding to rectify the situation immediately. Sweeney makes a small _oof_ as Shadow flips over him, deciding initiative is key, and bites decisively on his neck.

He’s rewarded with a _very_ enthusiastic moan.

“Come on, Moon boy,” Sweeney breathes, “get creative.”

Shadow’s about to say something- he’s not sure what- and then Sweeney’s hands are _very_ far south.

“You- are you sure-,” Shadow tries, brain short-circuiting.

“I ain’t fucken’ wrappin’ it for fun,” Sweeney growls, suddenly pushing him over.

He’s stronger than he looks. Shadow catches his breath, pausing, and Sweeney looks down at him with a fiery gaze.

“Finally,” he smirks, “Right where I want yeh.”

Shadow forgets what he’s supposed to be doing when Sweeney’s mouth descends. He’s almost regretful about the condom, but he’s not an ass and they _are_ almost complete strangers. Safe sex and all that. He stops thinking about it when he hears something- a bottle, and he knows what that means- and Sweeney groans around his dick.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel _really_ good.

“Havin’ fun back there?” Shadow manages, blinking stars away as he tries to focus.

He’s pretty sure there’s nothing more obscene that Sweeney. Not that he cares. Or, he really _does_ \- he cares _a lot_ and he _really_ wants to see Sweeney like this as often as possible.

Which is. Wow.

“I’m doin’ all the work, as usual,” Sweeney grins, licking his lips.

“Not for long,” Shadow smirks.

He almost throws Sweeny onto the coffee table but he’s conscious enough to not break it. It just complains loudly and before Sweeney has a chance to recover, Shadow leans over him and _pushes_.

He’s not sure how long he’ll last when Sweeney practically _roars_ and arches off the table. His head is swimming as he moves, aware only of the slap of skin and how unbelievably, ridiculously _good_ Sweeney feels.

“That’s better,” the man laughs, voice wavering, “ _fuck_ \- yer a big man, Shadow Moon.”

“Do you ever shut up, you goddamn leprechaun,” Shadow manages.

Sweeney laughs, loud, and then his laughs become ragged and Shadow wonders what the neighbors think of the moaning. He can’t bring himself to care. Instead he keeps moving, faster, forgetting what the point of anything is anymore, and Sweeney’s litany of encouragements stream by his ear.

They somehow, impossibly, finish together. He’s aware that it almost _never_ happens and it probably won’t happen again- _again?_ – so he enjoys it, the way they’re practically yelling at each other. He feels disgustingly sweaty and he knows he’ll be sore- especially his back, after the couch fell. Sweeney laughs, breathless, spread out on the table, and he decides it’s worth it.

“That was some coin trick,” Sweeney grins.

“You’re ridiculous,” Shadow shakes his head but he can’t bite back his smile.

“Now get off, yer heavy,” Sweeney groans. “I think it’s high time for a fucken shower.”

“You and me both.”

“That’s what I was plannin’ on.”

Sweeney smiles like a shark and Shadow shakes his head, pulling himself upright. He offers a hand and Sweeney accepts it, leaning in just to tug at Shadow’s ear with his teeth.

“Come on, Moon. Time to get wet.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm unstoppable today, apparently. Here ya go. Couldn't get straight-razor-wielding Sweeney out of my head. I think I'll probably end up revisiting this one later.


	5. Like a Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The AU where Shadow is a security guard and Sweeney's in the band.  
> -  
> Title because Chris Cornell is amazing and his voice is beautiful. Other reasons, too. Enjoy! No one asked for this.

“Two weeks?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. So, you’re new to the job?”

“No, just the company. I’ve worked these things before. They’re just usually smaller.”

The man nods, buttoning his shirt. Shadow checks his watch. Five hours until the concert and already there are people lining around the block. He can hear the dim roar of their chatter. Girls taking selfies, men sweating in leather jackets.

“You seen any good ones, then?”

“Depends on what you think is good,” Shadow says. “I worked security for that group that blew up- what is it…something with a number in the name…”

The other man laughs, checking the scanners on their charging stands.

“You’re not a music guy, are you?”

“I like music. It’s just- you don’t get to experience it, doing this. Not the same.”

“Not the same,” the man agrees, swinging a keyring.

He stands there, mostly listening to the other man- _Jacob_ \- talk about his other jobs. After an hour, another guard comes into the rotation, taking Shadow’s place. It’s like this: two hours of standing around waiting, forty-five minutes of break time, another two hours at a post. They circulate around the building, familiarizing themselves, and by the time the doors open, Shadow knows exactly where to look.

It’s his first time working security with Norse. The company is good- they run strict background checks and only take applicants from a network of affiliated companies. He’s lucky, he supposes, to have landed his previous job after prison. Without it, Norse would have passed him over in a heartbeat.

Now he has benefits.

“Ready? You’re on e-tickets,” Jacobs says.

Time speeds by and then the gates open to the flood, kids and adults crowding into the event center. Shadow is big enough to block the roped-off entrance, so he usually gets put on duty there. The people barely pay him any attention as they pass through, some practically shoving their phones in his face so he can scan them and let them in.

He can hear the pounding beat of the music inside, pulsing through the floor. They usually play music between openers and he’s used to the faraway noise. It stays at the back of his mind, a constant presence pressuring him to pay attention.

“Hey. Battery’s dead on Lopez’s scanner,” Jacobs says, almost yelling in the crowd. “give her yours and run down to the truck, okay?”

The good thing about being a big guy- and a big security guy at a concert- is that people tend to make way for him. Shadow feels biblical, moving almost unhindered through the crush of people as he goes to the garage. He unlocks the door, descending the staircase, and as he walks he can hear voices echoing.

“…got to be kidding me,” a voice says, barely audible.

“Why don’t ya fucken’ have a drink,” a man growls.

Shadow keeps his head down. Instinct reminds him to stay out of it until it’s his problem.

The garage, wide and nearly empty, only has three vehicles in it. One is a beaten-up van, one the security truck, and another a tour bus. He wonders briefly who’s arguing before he reaches the ground, emerging into a loose crowd of people.

Some of them are clearly musicians. They look the part, at least- artfully grimy and chic, smoking and passing some drink in a can around. There are a few suits, too- legal people or managers. Then there are five people that don’t fit.

The five look, for lack of a better description, like bar crawlers. They are average people with no strikingly distinct aura about them.

Well, four are average. One is most definitely not.

“Buy you a drink?” one of the musicians asks, a woman with wet-looking hair and stained jeans.

“Yer not my type, sweetheart,” the man- _the growler_ \- replies cheekily, taking her cigarette.

Shadow skirts the crowd, heading towards his truck, and then the man speaks directly to him.

“Hey, Security. There a problem up there?”

“No, sir,” Shadow says placidly.

It’s usually best to stay calm and reserved in concert settings, he’s learned, especially when the demographic is not mid-life-crisis white men trying to relive their teenage years.

“Sir,” the man laughs, leaning against the back of the beat-up van. “Sweet talker.”

He is the one that stands out. It’s not just the Irish accent, though; it’s the wild red hair and the shine to his honey eyes. They’re like whiskey, Shadow thinks, flammable and dangerous. Somewhere between smooth and hard-hitting. _A good whiskey._

Shadow can feel the man’s eyes on him when he leaves, battery in hand and heart in his throat.

*

The second opener is about to finish. People are leaving the lobby, drinks and food in hand, excited and loud. The lobby is never empty but Shadow expects it to be more desolate during the main act. He’s just ready to rotate out.

“Excuse me. What’s your name?”

It’s a man in a suit. _A manager or a lawyer,_ Shadow thinks. His first instinct is dread. He makes a point of not talking to people that high up- or making a problem for them.

“Moon, sir. Shadow Moon.”

The man doesn’t skip a beat. _He’s probably heard crazier names in the music business._

“Mr. Moon. Mr. Sweeney has requested you work security at the stage.”

“…I don’t work stage, sir.”

_The hell is Sweeney, anyways?_ It’s a personal choice. _A waste,_ Jacobs had said. _You’d get paid more and you’d get to hear the concert._ Shadow doesn’t want to put himself in the situation where he’d be likely to punch someone.

“Well, you’re gonna,” the man says, in a tone that brooks no argument. “I talked to your supervisor. With me.”

From the way he says it, Shadow gets the feeling the man is used ot delivering on random requests. They head to a side door, moving across the floor. The second opening group has already left. The crowd is amped up and loud. Lights are still flooding the space, illuminating the thousands of people inside.

“You’ll be here,” the man in the suit says, practically yelling in Shadow’s ear.

He ends up standing at the edge of the stage, on the left end, almost facing the rounded edge where the microphone stands. There’s another guard barely an arm’s length away, facing the crowd. Shadow plants his feet and waits.

_Just as long as no one tries to punch me, we’ll be fine._

He stands for what seems like ages and then the lights snap off, sudden. He knows it’s part of the set- security are briefed on small details- but the crowd don’t. They scream, shock turning into excitement as the stage is bathed in green. Shadow waits, foam plug in his right ear and a walkie piece in his left.

Someone screams, guttural and triumphant, and he can’t help it when he turns to see.

It’s the man from before. He’s holding the microphone like he’s drowning, red hair somehow wilder than before, and Shadow feels his breath catch in his throat.

He has to force himself to focus the entire show.

The man- Sweeney, he guesses- sings like he’s fighting. His voice is rough but somehow never off-key. He also seems to have endless amounts of energy; at one point, he swings the microphone stand easily with one hand.

_I can’t believe they’re the main act,_ Shadow thinks with mild amusement. He wonders whether the musician-y group was any good. The rest of the show passes in a blur and somehow, inexplicably, Shadow finds his foot tapping to the beat.

Nothing goes wrong. He mostly watches people scream and jump in place, some kind of wild energy consuming the crowd. He can almost feel it too, itchy beneath his skin. The electric charge sticks in the air like static and then the last song is over, echoes of guitar and furious drums ringing in his ears. The lights come up and the people laugh, exclaiming, all speaking a little too loud from hearing loss.

“Mr. Moon.”

_Mr. Suit._

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Sweeney would like to see you.”

Shadow follows the man to the garage. The beat-up van is still there, bouncing with band members still hyped up from the performance. Sweeney is sitting on the roof of the car, legs spread absurdly, and he slides off when he sees Shadow.

“So?”

“So, what?” Shadow asks.

“The show, yeh dumb ox. What’d ya think?”

“…you don’t get to enjoy it much when you’re working security,” he says, careful. “But…it sounded good.”

Silence. He thinks for a moment that he’s about to get torn apart. Berated for not paying attention or chewed out for not appreciating the opportunity. Instead, Sweeney grins, half-mad in the dim garage.

“So I guess next time, yer gonna need front-row tickets.”

Shadow is still confused. Or at least, he’s still confused until Sweeney practically undresses him with his eyes.

“I wouldn’t mind havin’ ya along fer the ride.”

“I’m not a groupie,” Shadow says, raising an eyebrow.

“Good. I don’t like screwin’ the groupies.”

“And I don’t screw strangers.”

“Then get to know me,” Sweeney says, tugging Shadow’s tie. “Stranger.”

He even sounds like he’s smirking when he talks. Shadow momentarily forgets what they’re arguing about.

“Hands off security, sir,” he says, too interested in what exact whiskey Sweeney’s eyes remind him of to make it sound convincing.

“Ya may want to check me for weapons,” Sweeney snickers, pulling harder. “Aye?”

“You ever shut up, or is that why you’re such a good singer?”

“A compliment. Be still, my heart,” Sweeney mocks.

Shadow decides he’s had enough. He’s tired of whatever game Sweeney is playing and he has no idea how music can be sexually frustrating, but the whole concert was for him so he’s giving up. Giving up and giving in.

He likes that Sweeney’s hair is long enough to pull. He does, wondering at the scratch of stubble against his face.

_He tastes like goddamn whiskey,_ he realizes, exasperated. And he bites like it.

“ _You_ started it,” Sweeney laughs, breathless, when they break apart.

_Yeah,_ Shadow thinks, _I kind of did._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm serious when I say I'm looking for AUs. Like, REALLY looking. It's hard to find good ones. This was fun, though. Inspired by my recent attendance of a Panic! concert.


	6. Play(ful)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The theatre AU.  
> Shadow has to do community service and ends up getting roped into helping backstage with a play. Then, he gets roped into something else entirely.

for [bluesyturtle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesyturtle/pseuds/bluesyturtle)

* * *

 

“Enter.”

Shadow stands in the doorway, almost unwilling to walk through. Audrey shoves at him, her perpetually half-angry eyes boring into his face.

“Move.”

They walk past the man- darker than Shadow, almost as wordless- and climb the creaking wood stairs. The upholstered seats are ragged and worn; they step into the third row and sit, surveying the other people.

“God,” Audrey mutters, crossing her arms. “I’d hate to be you.”

Shadow doesn’t answer. He’s still trying to puzzle out whether Audrey is simply along for the pleasure of watching him being tortured. His counselor, in her t-shirt with _Reentering Society: Success Stories!_ emblazoned across the back. She had looked even more tired than usual on Thursday, slapping a file of papers onto her desk as she entered.

His task had been to do something in the community. _For_ the community. Jana- the counselor- had given him a flyer for the local theatre. _It’ll be good; you don’t even have to act,_ she’d said. Audrey, during one of her rare calls, had managed to get out of him that he was going. She’d insisted on coming _as your warden, to make sure you don’t try and sneak out of it_. So here they were.

“If you are talent, please make sure to retrieve a script from the table below,” the man from the door says, peering over the top of his glasses at the crowd.

Shadow shifts in his seat. He wants to get out. He’s only there to offer his menial labor skills- working backstage is his goal. He knows he’s good at physical work. He’s a big guy and is pretty good at following directions. Doing this, he thinks, will give him an outlet while keeping the counselor off his back.

“All right. Ladies and gentlemen, you will have ten minutes to warm up. Talent, you are welcome to take the stage.”

The stage is not really a stage. It’s the ground. The sloping seats meet the dirty, unswept floor, which is glowing under the burning stage lights. A flood of people leave the seats, shuffling their way down, and Shadow tries to relax in his seat. _It’ll be a while,_ he thinks, hoping he can tune out or nap in the meantime.

The people- _talent,_ he thinks- mull around the floor. Some of them look absolutely crazy, waving their arms in giant circles and making odd noises. He can see a man in the corner, well-built and generally attractive, proudly stretching. A few young women stand in a circle, laughing while their eyes sharply dissect one another. It’s the kind of tension Shadow knows from prison, when strangers are introduced to one another. The pecking order quickly becomes clear, especially when an opportunity to show off comes up.

“My name is Mr. Ibis,” the man from the door says, supposedly ten minutes later. “I am the director of this fine theatre. You all have scripts; to begin, I would like to separate you into groups-,”

Shadow stops listening. He can feel his eyelids getting heavy. It’s been a long day and he’s worked all of it; he just wants to be sleeping in bed. Audrey jabs him in the side, painful.

“Hey. Stay awake. Don’t wanna miss any of this _talent,_ ” she says, smile twisting sardonically.

Disgruntled, he straightens up. _I just want this to be over._

Ibis separates the people into groups. Older, younger, men, women. Shadow isn’t quite paying attention to what the play is about; he concentrates instead on trying to guess what the people’s day jobs are. A blonde woman acting out a scene with an older man seems to be some sort of athletic teacher; she’s wearing professional-looking workout gear and her arms are perfectly toned. The old man is a retiree, Shadow thinks, an unhurried manner coloring his movements and words. The attractive young man reading a monologue is a trust fund kid, Shadow decides, just out of college and probably working at his father’s company.

Two young women and an old man in the middle of a scene- something about a grandfather and his fighting granddaughters- are interrupted when the door to the theatre opens. They pause for a moment, faltering, and then continue. Ibis turns to watch the hallway, footsteps approaching.

The man that emerges is…vibrant. He’s the type of person it would be hard to miss in a crowd. Unlike the others, who seem vaguely generic in one way or another, this man is unreadable. He has violently red hair, weirdly cut in something resembling a mohawk. His jeans are worn and dirty but they look well-fit and expensive.

He looks like an actor.

“Pa,” the man grins, slinging an arm around the old man on stage. “How are ya?”

His accent is jarring. Irish and extremely out of place. Shadow finds himself unconsciously shifting forward.

“What-,” the old man begins, startled, and the Irish intruder sneakily taps the man’s script. “ah- I’m not your Pa.”

“Oh, don’t be that way,” the man grins, arms wide as he turns away. He pulls his arms out of his leather jacket, throwing it onto a seat. “Yer lovely girls are like _family_ to me.”

One of the young women starts, flipping the pages in her hand nervously.

“I don’t think you’re _helping_ ,” she says, accentuating the word dramatically.

“Oh, luv. Yer sweet when yer flustered,” the man winks.

_He’s a natural,_ Shadow thinks, _if I’ve ever seen one._ Somehow, he steals the stage, focusing all attention on himself. Audrey is even riveted next to him, all her desire to needle Shadow gone as she watches. The man on stage is charismatic in a way that’s not pretentious.

“You know, you’ve given us enough grief,” the other young woman says, raising an eyebrow, a smile playing across her face.

“Oh, don’t cry- I promise I’ll do better by ya. I have news, too. I’ve got the job.”

“Stop,” Ibis says loudly, holding his hand up.

It breaks the spell. The people on stage collectively take a step back, dazed, and some of the audience claps. The intruder shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking on his feet. The chatter returns. Shadow watches as the young man- the trust fund kid- moves towards center stage to take the scene.

“It was a good run,” he says, smiling patronizingly.

The Irish man ignores him, lifting a leg to the wall as he laces up a worn boot. A young woman- the overacting one- sidles up to him. Shadow can barely hear their conversation but it’s fairly clear what’s happening. She seems to be praising him, giggling and laughing and touching his arm. Surprisingly, the man seems relatively uninterested or perhaps oblivious. He exchanges a few brief words before walking across the stage to stand by the curtain.

The night is colorful from then on. Shadow can’t help paying attention, waiting for the man to get back on stage. Somehow, he seems to make every part work- in one instant he goes from a playboy troublemaker to a fond cousin trying to protect his beloved Jessie and Sarah. He slides easily between roles, a turn of his mouth or the squashing of his accent complimented by a certain mannerism or the way he holds his body.

When everything is over, the people filter out and Shadow joins the crew on stage.

“We’ll need very specific sets,” Ibis says, passing papers around the circle. “You’ve all been assigned roles already; there aren’t as many of you as I’d like, so some of the talent today might join in later.”

“Hey, bird,” an accented voice says and then Shadow is being nudged as the intruder stands next to him. “Ya got one for me?”

“You’re talent, Sweeney,” Ibis reminds him in a voice that says he’s done it often.

“Aye, and I’m talented at makin’ shit, too,” Sweeney grins.

Shadow suppresses a smile. _This might be a little bit fun._

_Just a little bit._

*

One day into rehearsals, Shadow catches himself watching Sweeney instead of painting. He curses himself and gets back to work, rolling the blue paint over the wood. He’s in charge of most of the building work but the man in charge of painting is sick, so he’s picking up slack. There really aren’t a lot of people to work on the set; he suspects much of the ‘talent’ that didn’t land roles weren’t willing to come in for set work.

Rehearsals are interesting. Ibis had requested silence- or at least relative quiet- from those not performing a scene. Shadow has no trouble with the order; he enjoys listening, even if he can’t watch. The inflections and changes in tone are audible with the good actors, he learns, one of which is the _other_ young woman from Sweeney’s show-stealing scene.

“Yeh missed a spot.”

Shadow blinks, looking up, and sees Sweeney’s smug smile and bare arms. _He looks like he’s built a few things._

Ibis calls Sweeney to attention and then the man saunters away, empty-handed while the rest of the cast meander around with scripts in hand.

_Talent._

-

On a Thursday night, Shadow is working backstage alone. The _real_ stage, he finds out, is hidden behind curtains at the back of the space. It’s raised above the ground, away from the flat area that’s supposed to be a place for a live orchestra or band to play. It’s unusable, however, because it’s cluttered with an array of props and old costumes. Shadow’s job is to find set pieces among the mess.

He’s looking around a mannequin head with a wig on it, plucking something stuck on its head, when Sweeney appears.

“What kind’a pizza do yeh like?”

“…what?”

_Well, that was ungraceful._

“Pi-zza,” Sweeney says, emphasizing the syllables even as he grins. “What kind?”

“Uh- I’m not picky,” Shadow manages, untangling himself from broken chairs and garden tables.

Sweeney nods, glancing around the mess. He picks something up from a table- a keyring, Shadow thinks- and swings it on his finger.

“What’s yer name?”

“Moon. Shadow Moon,” he corrects, extending a hand.

The smile wiggles on Sweeney’s lips and when he opens his mouth, bright laughter spills out. When he accepts the invitation, Shadow notices the man’s hands are firm. He has a good handshake. Powerful but not intrusive.

“Well, _Shadow_. I’m Mad Sweeney.”

“That a stage name?” Shadow tries, smiling a little.

“Oh, no. I was _born_ theatrical,” Sweeney grins, making his way towards the curtains. “You’ll know when the pizza gets here. Make sure to join us.”

*

He’s getting to the theatre early one afternoon. He knows almost no one will be there yet and he wants to walk around freely to survey the area.

When he gets there, he walks up to the doors. Something crunches faintly and he pauses at the door, leaning back against the alcove. He knows he’s hidden and his first instinct is to wait and listen. _If someone follows you, your best option is to turn the tables and expose them._ He peers around the corner of the wall, quiet.

It’s Sweeney and the cocky trust fund kid. The younger man has a script in hand, which he barely looks at. _Are they rehearsing?_ He wonders what they’re doing outside. As he watches, the man shoves at Sweeney. He can’t really hear what they’re saying but the body language seems to indicate Sweeney’s aggravation at being pushed. Shadow’s fingers curl around the edge of the wall.

It’s a fight. There’s no denying where it’s going. All he knows is that he has to make a decision: get involved and possibly end up in more trouble, or wait it out and maybe watch Sweeney get hurt.

He doesn’t have time to choose. The younger man slams Sweeney back against the wall and then the redhead drops all pretense, strong hands curving around the man’s neck as he pulls his face into his jean-clad knee. Shadow stifles a gasp as he watches Sweeney release the younger man, cracking his knuckles as he glares darkly down at the body.

He decides to go inside then. Whatever happened, it’s finished and he has no reason to take part. As soon as he slips inside, he hears the door whoosh behind him. He hopes for a brief moment that it’s not the young man; he doesn’t want to get pulled into a fight by a beaten dog.

“Were you goin’ to jump in?”

“I shouldn’t. Got out of prison less than a year ago.”

He’s not sure why he says it but he’s beginning to understand when Sweeney nods, taking it in stride.

“Should and did have nothing to do with each other.”

“Yeah,” Shadow says, fighting a smile, “they really don’t.”

*

“Mr. Avery has left us in quite a state,” Mr. Ibis says, the only indication of anger on his face the way his eyebrow arches.

“He was a bug-eatin’ nonce,” Sweeney says conversationally, reclining in his seat.

Shadow suppresses a smile. The set is done; he shows up now to make sure everything is in order and it’s easy for the actors to move around. He’s starting to get a grasp on the play, just a little- it’s fragmented, but now he knows it’s primarily about the granddaughters and the grandfather learning to be a functional family. There’s also Sweeney’s character, who acts as a kind of outlet for the girls; Shadow’s only seen a few of his scenes.

“We are missing a vital part,” Ibis continues, “for a character whose arc represents a central theme in the story. It is important that we find the _right person_ for the part.”

_Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever saw that Avery person in his role,_ Shadow thinks. He’s sure he probably tuned the man out any time he came into the theatre.

“I have a suggestion,” Sweeney says, trying to look innocent.

“Yes, Mr. Sweeney.” Ibis’ tone is one of a long-suffering man.

“Shadow here is _fantastic_ ,” Sweeney waves up into the seats, still grinning, “very natural.”

Ibis raises an eyebrow. Shadow is still comprehending what’s happening.

“Are you sure?” a woman on stage asks, dark hair falling in a waterfall over one shoulder.

“Of _course,_ ” Sweeney says, “when have I ever been wrong, Bilquis?”

She looks at him pointedly but he ignores it. Shadow opens his mouth, trying to formulate a protest, and then Sweeney catches his eye. He looks at Shadow, something unreadable on his face, and smiles.

Shadow shuts his mouth.

_What am I getting myself into?_

*

His part is small. He actually only has maybe a full page of lines, mostly in response to things Sweeney says.

Apparently, he’s Sweeney’s character’s boyfriend.

According to Mr. Ibis, Shadow’s character is important for several reasons. One of those reasons is that no one else in the play thinks he and Sweeney’s character are actually together- they’re assumed to be friends.

Until, of course, they kiss somewhere near the end of the play.

Which.

“Don’t worry about missin’ a word here and there,” Sweeney says, swinging his long legs over the edge of the stage. “Just try an’ get the gist of it first.”

Shadow wants to ask, _why did you do this to me,_ but he just grunts acknowledgement and stares at the words. He’s not sure how he’s going to survive the next five weeks until the play.

*

“Not enough,” Sweeney wrinkles his nose, shaking his head. “Good, but…missing some heart.”

“Some heart?”

“Yeah. Here- put the script down.”

“I don’t-,” Shadow starts, reflexively reaching for it before Sweeney tosses it away.

The theatre is empty. Sweeney had suggested one-on-one rehearsals to get Shadow caught up since apparently, he has a key. They’ve been meeting for a week already, running lines and moving around the space. Shadow is finding that acting is extraordinarily more complicated than he’d imagined- he has to remember to keep his body turned a certain way, move to specific places, speak in natural response times…

“Pay attention,” Sweeney says, patting Shadow’s shoulder. “I’m yer _boyfriend_. These other people are just strangers. They’re not important. Remember: _I_ brought you here. I’m the one you wanna be talkin’ to.”

_Easier said than done._

“You enjoyin’ the party?” Sweeney, suddenly in character, asks.

“…it’s nice.”

“Nice? Oh-ho. The ladies been flocking around yeh?”

“Maybe. I haven’t noticed.”

Sweeney sinks into a chair, propping a foot up on the garden table. Shadow watches, amused, a smile flickering. He almost squashes it and then he remembers Sweeney’s words- _don’t do what Shadow would do. Do what Daniel would._ Daniel, the boyfriend. Daniel, a person capable of standing on equal footing with Sweeney’s Morgan.

He smiles.

Sweeney beams back, sunny, and his eyes are bright. For a moment, Shadow believes they are who they’re pretending to be. He’s Daniel, a man who’s never been in prison, a man whose day job is working as a mechanic, a man who is completely and utterly in love with the roguish Morgan.

It feels good.

*

“All right. Forty,” Sweeney announces, moving across the set.

“I- think I may need to run through twenty-two a few times,” Shadow says.

He’s been avoiding forty like the plague. It’s their last scene; the scene where Sweeney is talking to the granddaughters and Shadow shows up to greet him. And kiss him.

It’s not like it’s the focus of the entire play, or scene. It’s a brief moment. It is casual and natural, specifically designed to emphasize the way everyone around them assumes their friendship without recognizing the clear relationship they’re in. It is respectful and brief, not exploitative.

He’s still nervous as all hell.

“…all right. Sit down,” Sweeney says, crossing his arms.

“What-,”

“ _Sit._ ”

Shadow sits, uneasy. Sweeney paces a little.

“It ain’t gonna make yeh gay, if that’s what-,”

“I’m not,” Shadow interrupts quickly, trying to explain, but then Sweeney continues.

“Well, _I_ ain’t gonna push it on yeh. It’s just fer a scene and-,”

“Sweeney.”

The man stops, fingers dancing on his leg with pent-up energy. _He’s just as nervous as me,_ Shadow realizes. Somehow, it makes him feel a little better, and a lot more worried.

He’s thought about the scene since day one. He’s been thinking about every waking moment- when he’s at work, when he’s driving, when he’s making fucking scrambled eggs for breakfast. He can’t stop thinking about it, whether he wants to put his hand on Sweeney’s waist- just the lower back, stable, pressing, wanting to touch. Whether he wants to touch the neck instead, feel the messy red hair, try to count the freckles on Sweeney’s nose.

He’s been passing it off as nerves and overthinking acting.

_Like hell it’s the acting part._ It’s the acting part that’s making it harder. He’s going to have to act like he’s acting attraction.

“I’m not…worried about it,” Shadow says, “and thank you. For…trying to talk about it.”

“So, what, then?”

“My wife died the day I was released,” Shadow says, falling back on the old explanation. Somehow it feels like an excuse. It’s not even that true- he doesn’t think about Laura as much and it doesn’t hurt the way it used to. “I just…haven’t really done _anything_ since then. It doesn’t matter if it’s acting or not.”

Sweeney nods, sitting across from him. He leans his chin on his hand.

“Why don’t yeh go out, then. Find a nice girl an’ have a good night. We’ll do it tomorrow.”

_That’s not what I meant,_ Shadow wants to say, _and why would I kiss some random woman when-_

When what?

Sweeney pats his shoulder before he leaves. Shadow wants to follow the touch, follow Sweeney, explain. He’s just not sure what it is he wants to say.

*

Ibis tells them, with two weeks to go, that he’ll need Sweeney for the other scenes. He can’t practice with Shadow anymore, with their schedules being the way they are.

They still haven’t run through scene forty.

“You’ll do great,” Sweeney tells him, smiling.

But by now, Shadow knows what it looks like when Sweeney’s acting.

*

The day of the show, Shadow almost can’t concentrate on acting. He’s done scenes with Sweeney and the others, sure, but the number forty looms over him like an omen.

Everything runs smoothly. The lights work, the music is miraculously clear and on time- even the audience is there for the curtain. No one barges in late to interrupt the production. Shadow somehow manages to forget everything he’s been worried about when the lights shine down on him, hot and bright.

It’s distracting. The audience is dark and anonymous, making things a little easier on him. Everything progresses right; there are no missed lines or accidents. Soon enough, they’re already on thirty-five and it’s time for him to change.

Behind the stage there’s a changing area. He’d learned early on that in some ways, theatre is like prison- no one cares about who’s changing or nude; the only concern is getting ready for the next scene and staying quiet. He’s lucky in that all he really does is change his shoes and shirt; some of the others have to completely strip and redress between scenes, with barely three minutes to straighten themselves out and tiptoe to the front again.

He takes his time changing and waits in the wing. Bilquis is there, along with one of the young women- _Zorya,_ she’d introduced herself, _it’s easier than my first name_. Shadow leans against the wall, half-listening to the scenes on stage. He knows when he has to come in and he still has ten minutes at least.

“You’re nervous?” Zorya asks.

“…well, yeah,” he murmurs, “Never done this before.”

“You’re good,” she says, smiling and angelic, “I know. I’ve seen many others.”

“Thanks.”

Zorya leaves a minute later, pressing her hands against her skirt to straighten it. Bilquis shifts on her feet, peering out between the crack in the curtains.

“Have you practiced it?”

It’s pretty hard to act ignorant, so he doesn’t. He thinks it would be insulting. Bilquis has the eyes of a woman who’s lived. Like Audrey, but less angry and somehow more understanding.

“No.”

“Why not? Afraid?”

“Not of what it is,” he says, crawling in his skin. He doesn’t want to talk about it with a stranger.

“…ah. Romantic,” she smiles, her tone suggesting she knows how cliché it is, “Falling for your co-star.”

“I…,”

“Not uncommon,” she says, “for a reason. You see more of people- _real_ people- when you know what masks they use. It’s easier to love. To hate.”

“I guess so,” he says, thinking. _Easier to tell when they’re acting._ “You think I can tell?”

“I know you can,” she smiles, “because you look like you learned the hard way.”

He thinks of Laura and Robbie. Of not recognizing that Laura was dead inside, or maybe just didn’t love him the way he loved her. Knowing it wasn’t her fault but accepting that it hurt him anyways.

“Some people are like the sun,” Bilquis continues, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she prepares to leave, “hard to look at, hard to love- but impossible not to admire. Worth the risk.”

She walks through the curtains and Shadow is left standing there, waiting for his cue. He can’t hear his heartbeat in his ears anymore. Instead, he feels a strangely placid sense of calm washing over him. He isn’t running through lines in his head. He’s waiting to speak.

When he walks onto the stage, he sees Sweeney’s back. He’s still wearing a leather jacket- a choice he’d made with Ibis during the costume fitting. _It fits,_ he’d said, grinning cheekily, and the director hadn’t bothered to fight him on it. Shadow had even wanted to smile then, somehow unable to stop the way he reacted to the Irish man’s charm.

Sweeney is in the middle of saying something to Zorya- a line he’s supposed to finish- and Shadow decides it makes no sense. _Why would I wait for him to finish? I miss him._ His hand moves on its own- he’s not sure if it’s the right one and he thinks he might be upstaging- and it lands on Sweeney’s shoulder.

Sweeney turns, surprise clear on his features, and Shadow leans in.

_I’m screwed,_ he thinks joyfully, and then he firmly presses his mouth against Sweeney’s. He can taste honey and something alcoholic- a shot before the play, he thinks with amusement. The rules for acting-kissing, he knows, are different than real-life. Sweeney had taught him. Except he’s not really acting all that much anymore. Not at the moment.

When he backs away, Sweeney follows for a second. He feels triumphant, smiling, and then Sweeney raises an eyebrow and smirks.

“About time,” he says, eyes sparkling. The line has two meanings, now.

_Yeah,_ Shadow thinks, _and worth the risk._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a while. I was on a reluctant vacation but now I'm back! Rest assured, I'm sifting through requests right now- and I'm super happy you all suggested them! It'll be fun to fill the prompts.


	7. The Clash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you can guess the title inspiration for the Police AU.  
> Shadow's back on the job after a leave of absence and he has a weird encounter with an Irish delinquent.

for both Lou and [Cas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cas/pseuds/Cas), who requested similar AUs

* * *

 

He gets the call, of course.

Six months on the job, stuck on desk duty and easy street, and then the moment he gets back on the beat he’s called to a bar fight.

“ _You sure_ -,” he hears Smith say over the radio, her voice tinny.

“I got it, Tina. Just a bar fight.”

He tells himself _just a bar fight_ a hundred times on his way. He can already hear the Captain chewing his ass out for taking the call. He’s supposed to be sitting pretty, racking up a steady paycheck while ‘recovering’. Like it’s that simple and nice.

The bar is a reminder of the past. Last Call, a raggedy but charming place at the end of the street. It’s far enough from the heart of the city to be less busy but popular enough to draw a crowd. Robbie had fucking loved it for the rough owner and his staff- all from the Irish slums, the little communities that still retained some semblance of accents and old songs. He’d loved the angry men that frequented the bar, always ready to shoot his mouth off at them and make trouble.

Shadow thinks that if he’d been paying attention then, he would’ve hated Robbie more.

There’s already a small crowd gathered outside, where the fight has moved. He thinks at least there won’t be property charges since there isn’t any apparent damage. He also doesn’t think he needs backup; no one else seems to be jumping into the fray.

“Move it back, people,” he says loudly, making his way through the crowd. His car door is open and the lights are flashing.

He knows what he looks like. Big black guy in a cop uniform, he tends to make people think twice about doing something stupid. It works to his advantage most times. In this case, the patrons make way as he approaches the people that are fighting.

One of them is a man in a suit, his fedora somehow magically still stuck to his head. The other is a redhead, very clearly Irish and extremely angry. At first glance, Shadow thinks he needs to restrain the redhead. He steps closer, careful, one hand hovering at his belt. He can use pepper spray or a taser if he really feels like it but he’s usually strong enough to get the job done with force alone.

He steps behind the distracted Irish man, careful, and locks his arms in a careful hold.

“Let me _go_ , yeh bastard!”

He’s kicking and yelling. Shadow sighs through his nose; he’s used to the struggle. Somehow, it feels good. As if he’s finally back to normal. In his element.

“All right. Just give it a rest. Make this easier,” Shadow says, keeping his voice placid and non-threatening. He looks up and sees the man in the suit leaving. “Hey! Someone-,”

“ _Damn_ you-!” the man in his grip yells, twisting, and Shadow tightens his grip.

 _Fuck._ Now, he’s pissed. The other man disappears into the crowd, probably long gone. Shadow adjusts his grip on the Irish man and slips a cuff on him, struggling only a little. The other man is tall but he’s not as broad as Shadow. Once he’s handcuffed, he seemingly gives in, letting Shadow push him into the car.

“Pressing charges?” Shadow asks, watching someone walk over.

He doesn’t recognize the man. It isn’t the owner he remembers. This man has a glass eye, strangely mismatched in color. He smiles patiently, glancing into the car.

“Oh, no,” he says amicably, “Sweeney here’s a regular.”

 _Shit._ It’s the first time he’s got the wrong guy, technically. He nods.

“All right, sir. If you see that other man-,”

“I doubt he’ll be back,” the man smiles, casting a final glance at Sweeney before turning to leave.

 _Right,_ Shadow thinks. _First real day and I already fucked up._

*

“Thanks, sonny.”

It’s the first thing he hears when he slides into the car. He rolls his eyes at the sky, trying to remember his shitty therapy.

_Patience._

“You always come around her picking fights, or was today just special?”

“I don’t _pick_ fights,” the man sneers, “but at least when I’m in ‘em, I don’t fight the wrong man.”

Shadow sighs through his nose, switching the light off. He backs out of the parking lot slowly, turning into traffic. It’s barely nine o’clock and there’s already heavy congestion heading into and out of the city.

“You’re lucky he’s not pressing charges.”

“Yeah. I’m real fucken’ lucky.”

“You got a problem with cops in general, or am I just special?”

“I don’t have shite with anyone,” the man snorts, “they do with me.”

Shadow fights a smirk and fails.

“Can’t imagine why.”

The man chuckles. His gaze, Shadow decides, is sharp. _Interesting._

“So why were you fighting the suit? You’re not drunk.”

“Don’t need ta be drunk to enjoy a good whoopin’, especially when it’s deserved,” the man corrects, glancing out the window.

“Deserved?”

“…he’s a fucken’ bastard. Just rolled a bulldozer over half the family’s land,” the man says lowly, looking half like he doesn’t want to talk. “Then he comes into our bar and tries ta act like he’s some regular Pete.”

Shadow nods. It’s getting worse every year, he thinks, the development and the way it’s pushing poor families out of their little towns. Cultural decimation wrapped in a nice, 4k-and-suit package. He hates seeing the people that are wronged coming into the station, bereft of all hope and ambition, resorting to petty crimes or other unsavory actions to make themselves known.

“It’s shit,” Shadow agrees, “I used to come to Last Call wi- a few years ago.”

 _With my wife,_ he thinks. _Can’t even admit that._

“Yeh got a special interest in us poor sods? Or am I just that lucky, Officer-?”

“Moon.”

“ _Moon_.” The man smiles, biting his lip as he tries not to laugh. Shadow rolls his eyes but smiles.

“Shadow Moon. I know. You’re Sweeney?”

“Mad Sweeney,” the man agrees, snorting. “Don’t we make a fucken’ pair.”

“Sure do,” Shadow says, turning off at an exit. _We sure do._

*

Sweeney gets stuck in holding with an assortment of dumb kids and drunk assholes waiting to get bailed out. Shadow is almost sad to stick him in the pit, wondering whether it was really worth it to bring him in. He seems like a nice enough guy.

The evening wears on and a wife comes in to chew out her drunk husband, almost slapping him before looking around the station as if it’s a church and she almost swore. Later, a couple comes in and takes their son, noses turned up at everyone. Shadow thinks he’ll probably be an asshole in college. One by one the people leave and then it’s only Sweeney, sitting sorry in a corner.

“You got anyone coming for you?”

“…I do believe you remember where I’m from.”

 _Right. Poor._ Shadow sits on a bench, tapping a finger on his coffee cup. His eyes are starting to burn. He only has an hour left on his shift and the day has been way too long.

“What about you, Moon? Yeh got family to come for ya?”

“…no,” he submits, shaking his head. He wonders whether he should and then he does. “Wife’s dead.”

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

“I took the call. Didn’t know she would be there. The car- it was my best friend’s. I thought if it was him, I should be the one to answer and tell his wife. Found my wife in the car instead. His dick was gone. Bit off in the moment, I guess.”

“… _that…_ is fucked,” Sweeney says, eyebrows raised up to his fiery hair. “What a cunt. Yer a _cunt_ , dead wife,” he yells at the floor.

It’s absurd and random and it makes Shadow laugh. Actually, loudly, laugh. He realizes after it happens that he doesn’t remember the last time he laughed.

“There we go. Now that’s a pretty smile,” Sweeney grins. “bein’ sad don’t suit yeh. Hard to look at.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Sweeney sighs, sinking to the ground, stretching his long limbs out on the hard floor. His fingers tap against his shirt. Shadow thinks for a moment. _I could. Might get in trouble. But…_

“What the fuck.”

“Eh?” Sweeney moves his head, turning to look, and Shadow opens the gate.

“Come on.”

Sweeney pauses, squinting.

“You want out or no?”

Sweeney grins, holding a hand in the air. Shadow grumbles but accepts it anyways, pulling the man up. He tries to ignore the smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey on the man’s skin when he bumps his shoulder. Even his eyes are the color of honey, mischievous and knowing.

“Well. I owe you a drink.”

Shadow shoots him a pointed look. Sweeney backs away, palms up.

“Okay, okay- dinner, then.”

*

They’re at a cheap diner and Shadow is staring at Sweeney’s enormous stack of blueberry pancakes.

“What-,” the man asks, muffled through a mouthful, “they’re seventy cents.”

It sound more like _thr thvnty thns_.

Shadow bites a slice of Canadian bacon, shaking his head. The waitress comes around, a beautiful woman with full lips, coffee pot in hand.

“More?”

“Yes, thank you,” Shadow says, offering the cup.

Sweeney doesn’t look up. _Hm._ Shadow had noticed that when they sat, he purposefully picked a seat away from and facing the door. He’d also checked exits. Exactly what Shadow had done.

They’re the kind of things that cops and fighters do.

Ignoring a beautiful woman, though- even a waitress- is interesting. He wonders if the pancakes are that good.

“You ever breathe when you eat?”

Sweeney flips him off cheerfully, swallowing before downing half his water.

“I haven’t eaten all day, yeh doorknob. Cut me a break.”

“I’m not criticizing.”

“Yer a smartass, Shadow Moon,” Sweeney says, jabbing his fork across the table. “I like it.”

*

They’re about to leave the diner when a man brushes by Sweeney to get inside. He practically sends the tall man flying into the wall, shoving unnecessarily. Shadow tenses.

 _I guess this is the moment,_ he thinks, _when I find out how much of a troublemaker he is._

The man turns, belligerent, and starts in on Sweeney.

“What’s your fuckin’ problem?” he shoves at Sweeney’s shoulders, loud.

“I’d suggest yeh step back,” Sweeney tells the man, voice low and warning.

“Fuck you, man-,”

“Hey,” Shadow says, stepping closer, and then the man swings.

Shadow feels the punch hit his shoulder. He slips into the fight easily, blocking the man’s punches and knocking away his flailing limbs. The adrenaline in his system is directed by years of training, pumping through his body as he catches the man in a chokehold.

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the badge.

“You should really stop,” he says calmly.

The man’s eyes widen and he curses, going limp. Shadow backs away slowly, standing in the doorway.

“You need to leave,” he says calmly. “If you come back, you _will_ be arrested and charged with assaulting an officer.”

The man scrambles away, muttering something, and slips out the door. Shadow sighs and straightens his shirt, pulling himself to his feet, and then something else hits him.

He almost swings, instincts firing, and then all he tastes is blueberry pancakes and whiskey-spiked coffee.

 _When did he spike his coffee?_ Shadow wonders distantly. He almost forgets to kiss Sweeney back. When the man backs away, he follows him for a second.

“What-,”

“I’m Irish,” Sweeney grins, breathless, “I fucken’ _love_ me a good fight.”

Shadow laughs, incredulous, half-aware of the fact that they’re still standing outside the diner.

“Why don’t we take this somewhere else,” he suggests, stumbling towards his car.

“Well, mister _law_ man,” Sweeney snickers, devilish, “you’re the authority.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I doing anymore? Obviously not work. Just the equivalent of shitposts in fic form with all the AUs. Hope you enjoy and share!


	8. Fairy Cake: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadow's going to pick up Audrey's kid from school when he runs into a familiar face.

Audrey’s daughter is, fortunately, nothing like her father. Yet. She is probably what Audrey was like before Laura betrayed her and Shadow both. Not that it’s really a betrayal…and Robbie was as much at fault as Laura.

Casey is bright. Not just smart- there’s something about her smile and fairy-blonde hair that radiates. She is just a little small for her age but that doesn’t stop her from doing anything. At six years old, she’s full of energy and ideas and Cheerios accidentally dropped in her dress pockets during breakfast.

Shadow typically wouldn’t care much about Casey. Sure, she’s a sweet kid, but he doesn’t feel a responsibility for her. Audrey has her rich bitch friends- that’s what she calls them- and enough money from Robbie’s death to live in relative comfort, making memory scrapbooks for upper-middle class white women. Casey, he knows, will be well cared for- and she’ll be tough, too. There’s no reason for him to be involved in her life, or Audrey’s for that matter.

Yet he is.

“ _You owe me,_ ” Audrey says over the phone. It’s raining again. He remembers a redhead chasing a bus and smiles briefly before focusing on the conversation.

“I don’t owe you shit.” Not angry. Calm.

“ _Listen, Moon- I don’t have a husband and there’s no way to get someone else this fast. I just need her picked up and brought home._ ”

“Why don’t you ask one of your rich neighbors?” He’s already walking to his front door, sighing through his nose.

“ _Just fucking do it. I’ll pay you when you get here for the five dollars of gas it’ll take._ ”

Luckily, the school isn’t that far from his apartment. He’d moved after Laura, giving up the home that had been a dream to him and a cage to her. It was too dark in the corners after her death. He doesn’t think about it as much as he used to. There were times, before, when he’d regretted selling it for some stupid reason. He’d been tempted to go back, walk through the rooms, remember her ghost.

He’s past that shit now.

The line in front of the school is unbelievable. He’s starting to realize why Audrey never picks up her kid. The parking lot is mostly empty, though, so he pulls into a spot and decides to get down. He’s picked Casey up before- with much more time and incentive. She knows him well enough to recognize him. He walks between mostly stationary cars, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

There are kids running around everywhere. He finds an adult in an orange vest; a woman smiling patiently at the children screaming and laughing around her.

“Hi. I’m here to pick up-,”

“Shadow!”

“Hey, Casey,” he says, bending to catch her as she catapults herself at his legs, “how are you?”

“Name?” the woman asks, pulling out a clipboard.

“Shadow Moon.”

The woman looks through the papers, brow furrowed, a finger on the walkie at her neck. It’s clipped to the orange vest in a way that reminds him of the police. He hopes he doesn’t have too much trouble getting Casey checked out.

“You’re not listed-,” the woman starts and he nods, trying to explain.

“Yeah, Audrey couldn’t get here to pick her up, so she called me. Do I need to-?”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ll just get someone at the front desk to verify for me. Do you mind staying at the bench here?”

“No problem.” _It’s not like I was planning on being here anyways._

Casey babbles on about some sort of game- involving pretzels, he thinks- and he sits patiently, listening to her and nodding when expected of him. It’s easy for him to get along with kids. Thankfully. He finds if he listens and nods, maybe expresses mild surprise, they prefer to talk at him rather than hold a conversation. It’s easy enough to play along; he’d learned as much in prison.

“Ah, _there_ yeh are, Bown Reein.”

_Who the hell names their kid-_

He blinks, recognizing the accent. When he looks up, he feels a sudden shiver and shock. He remembers the red hair and wide smile. Pancakes at iHop and a smart mouth spilling words steeped in Irish liquor.

“Sweeney,” he says, surprised.

The man turns, surprised and Shadow sees the child in his arms. She’s wide-eyed, with dark hair and greenish eyes, tilting her head.

“Moon,” Sweeney beams, hefting the child a little as he approaches, “Imagine that!”

“I’m…picking up a friend’s daughter,” he explains, gesturing at Casey, who’s digging around in her Power Rangers backpack. “Casey,” he adds unnecessarily.

“Ah. Hello, Casey,” Sweeney grins, watching the young girl turn around, “You know, that’s an Irish name!”

“You talk funny,” Casey beams. Shadow chokes down his laugh, fighting to keep his mouth an even line.

“That’s not nice, Case-,”

“True, though,” Sweeney says seriously, crouching, “This is my niece. Kind of-,”

“How did you pronounce her name?” Shadow asks, curious. “Bow…,”

“Her name’s Eva,” Sweeney chuckles. “I just call her Banríon because it means queen.”

“Oh.”

The girls are already talking to each other, Casey showing Eva some sort of folder with a multitude of stickers plastered across the front. Sweeney straightens just enough to sit beside Shadow, leaning back on the bench. He’s about to open his mouth to say something when a horde of boys sprints by, one of them landing squarely on Sweeney’s foot as he passes by.

“ _Mother_ f-,” Sweeney starts, loud, before biting his tongue and glancing at Eva, who peers over for a brief second.

This time, Shadow can’t squash his snort. Sweeney glares at him halfheartedly, sniffing as he rests his arms on the back of the bench.

“So, Moon. Yeh come here often?”

“…really?” He’s a little impressed, really, at Sweeney’s ability to smoothly flirt _in front of an elementary school._ He would be lying if he said it wasn’t attractive.

“Some children are little shi- horrors,” he corrects, rubbing his forehead, “it can make you homicidal, comin’ here.”

“I don’t usually,” Shadow submits, “but Audrey was tied up and…I guess I couldn’t say no.”

Sweeney hums, glancing around the covered pickup area. Shadow can see a woman walking their way, walkie and orange vest. He expects it’ll be his clearance to take Casey home.

He wants to say something but he’s not sure what. _I really liked that brunch we had._ Lame. _I was just thinking about you this morning._ Very lame. _Would you like to-_ desperate. He tries to gauge Sweeney’s mood; the man is wearing almost the same outfit he’d been wearing when they met. Dirty jeans, off-white shirt, worn jacket. Except…

“Is that one of the acorns?” Shadow asks, a smile crawling onto his lips.

“Oh- aye,” the man grins, picking up the threaded nut, “Eva says I need fairies to help me.”

“Yeah! You need a new boyfriend!” the little girl practically yells, bending back to look at her uncle over Casey’s back.

Sweeney splutters, ears red, and Shadow has to cover his mouth to stop laughter from exploding out.

“Yeh shi- little queen, you _really_ shouldn’t yell fu- _stuff_ about yer uncle, yeh hear?”

His point is garbled a little by the continued corrections to his bad language. Eva simply stares at him, looking for all the world as if she either isn’t listening or doesn’t care. Shadow feels his shoulders shake a little with laughter. Sweeney shoots him an acidic glare.

“It ain’t funny, yeh doorknob.”

“No,” Shadow smirks, “Sorry. I was just about to say, I think the fairies are working.”

Sweeney looks confused and then Shadow stands, tapping Casey’s shoulder. The patrol woman is close.

“Come on, Case. We gotta get you to Mom.”

Casey groans and sighs and shoves things back into her backpack. Sweeney stands, arms crossed over his chest, suspicious. Shadow holds a hand out.

“What?”

“Let me see your phone,” Shadow says patiently.

Sweeney hands it over, eyebrow raised, but there’s a faint smile on his mouth. Shadow puts his number in easily, handing the phone back.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, trying to end on a confident note while he has the chance.

“Sure will,” Sweeney grins, slipping the phone into his back pocket.

The patrol woman is just having Shadow sign Casey out when he hears Eva yelling behind them, cheerful and loud.

“See! I told you the fairies would help!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short but...yeah. I thought the idea of continuing specific stories at some point would be neat and there was a request for a scenario where Sweeney tries really hard not to cuss in front of a kid. (I don't remember specifically who but you know who you are!) Anyways, more to come soon~


End file.
